


The Daffodil Boy

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, First Love, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rampant Feelings, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, Tenderness, Vulnerable Greg, Vulnerable Mycroft, Young Mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2020-03-09 04:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18909406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Newly graduated and working for his uncle at the Foreign Office, a young Mycroft Holmes falls head over heels for a brown-eyed boy selling flowers on the London Underground. Great things are expected of Mycroft. But can there ever be a place in his world for the boy he loves?





	1. Distraction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randomscientist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomscientist/gifts).



> Written with much love as a present for my wonderful Arbie, whose thoughtful comments never fail to make my heart detonate in a rainbow-coloured shower of happiness.
> 
> Further chapters are to come. Before you get settled, I'll gently guide your attention to (1) 'Tags May Change' and (2) 'Rating May Change'. I'm letting the boys drive this one. It's usually the best way to guarantee we'll end up somewhere fun. I don't know how long it will be, nor how angsty it might get along the way, but as with all my fics I promise you a very happy ending.
> 
> Give me a wave if you're here. <3

 

If thou hast a loaf of bread, sell half and buy the flowers of the narcissus; for bread nourisheth the body, but the flowers of the narcissus the soul.  
_\- Oswald Crawfurd_

 

*

 

He might as well have sold sunshine—bright handfuls of it, fresh from the clunky green bucket he carried.

People lit up like beacons as they spotted him. They emerged from the carriage, took one look at his smile and burst out of winter into bloom. They fished coins from their pockets, beaming as they approached him—these grey-faced men and women of London, suddenly human again at one touch of his light—and he smiled at them, and handed over a bunch of yellow flowers, and wished them a good day.

He couldn't be any older than twenty-five. His muddy black jeans had worn to tatters at the bottom; every single day he wore the same fingerless gloves to ward off the chill, the same deep green fleece, with a different faded t-shirt underneath. He seemed so sunny and colourful and young that he infused these miserable grey tunnels with life, simply by being here. Between each customer, he raked a handful of messy dark hair back from his forehead. It flopped forwards again in an instant.

It was eight o'clock in Westminster Tube Station, and Mycroft Holmes had just come into existence aged twenty-two.

It happened every morning at this time.

Every single morning, Mycroft realised afresh that the Daffodil Boy didn't really sell flowers. He sold smiles. His customers paid two pounds to have those magnificent brown eyes to themselves, just for a moment; the bright yellow daffodils made a pleasant souvenir.

There was surely no chance he didn't realise.

Mycroft couldn't bear it: that awful possibility, however slight, that the Daffodil Boy didn't understand he was wonderful.

 

*

 

He'd appeared with the first signs of spring.

Mycroft almost walked into a wall, that first morning.

He reached his uncle's office in a mess of sweat and hormones, hot all over, his heart pounding as he watched his own fingers trembling on the buttons of his coat.

 _Biological,_ he thought, laying out his uncle's papers for the morning well ahead of schedule, in a desperate effort to calm himself. _The chemistry is simple. If unexpectedly potent._

By the end of the day, he'd rationalised the experience—and was rather pleased by the speed and the efficiency with which he'd done it.

 _I experienced an instance of sexual attraction,_ he told himself, as he strode through the tube station to go home that night, glad of the crowd and the cold grey walls. _Rather overdue, but very normal and unavoidable. I did not act upon it. It did not hinder me in discharging my duties to my uncle for the day. With a modicum of effort, I can distance myself very comfortably from physical urges._

By the time he went to bed, he could even be amused by the trick that his mind had attempted to play on him.

 _The young man was hardly THAT stunning,_ he thought, laying his head upon his pillow. _Well-formed, perhaps, with certain animal charms... but likely poorly-educated, selling daffodils from a bucket to make a living. Certainly not worth the distraction._

He stepped from the train next morning without a thought, arranging his umbrella over the crook of his arm. He moved with the general press of people towards the tunnel, not looking, and only glanced at the last moment to ensure his path was clear.

As his gaze flicked up, a broad smile awaited him—and a pair of the deepest and darkest brown eyes he'd ever seen.

_Oh—_

_Oh, dear Christ—_

The Daffodil Boy grinned.

"Mornin'," he said— _East London—younger siblings, a single mother—a dog no larger than a collie—a family business—floristry—a shop or a main stall somewhere on the Circle, District or Jubilee line—_ and he stepped out of Mycroft's path. "Have a good day."

Before Mycroft could scoop his brain off the ground to reply, another commuter approached bearing two pounds—and the Daffodil Boy was hers, smiling, asking her which ones she'd like.

Mycroft stumbled along the tunnel, as numb and pale as if he'd just hauled himself up from the tracks.

For the first time since university, he bought cigarettes. He smoked four of them right there beside the news stand, shaking, panicking at the thought that Uncle George would tell Mama that he'd arrived that morning reeking of nicotine—panicking more at the thought that he'd arrive at the Foreign Office gibbering about boys bearing daffodils.

He went to bed early that night, after what seemed an extremely long day, claiming a migraine.

Really, it was to lie in the silence of his bedroom and think—to try and reconcile what he knew of his own mind with the deep, hurried thudding he now felt behind his ribs.

_"Have a good day."_

Next morning, Mycroft stepped off the train with his back straight and his head held high, telling himself he was ready.

He wasn't.

 

*

 

The world always told him it would hurt.

He'd declined such saccharine advice with a thin smile, inwardly rolling his eyes at such misguided assurances. If people only cared to utilise their brains, he'd thought, they might yet realise that the best security one could take out against the pains of lost love was not to indulge in the practice in the first place.

When the wise informed him love would hurt, they'd presented it as some stunning revelation—as if he should be dazzled to hear that the ground hurt when one leapt off the roof.

They hadn't mean the inevitable end, though.

They'd meant the inevitable start.

They meant that first flash of brown eyes, that first warm smile. They meant that first crippling moment every morning when the platform appeared, and there stood the Daffodil Boy and his bucket with its lopsided £2 sign spray-painted in white, and Mycroft felt his throat clench shut. It did so to stop his heart from lurching free through his mouth. In that moment, he forgot how to walk; he forgot how to speak. He forgot what he ordinarily did with his eyes, where he put them, what else in the world he usually looked at.

 _Please,_ he thought each morning, tightening his grip on his umbrella, _please, don't meet my gaze today—I can't bear it today—_ until the Daffodil Boy met his gaze, and smiled at him, and it filled him with a giddy joy he could barely keep away from his expression—and he realised all over again why wars had been waged, and why empires had fallen, over the promise of another person's love. The Daffodil Boy could run England from the shadows in a matter of days, if he was permitted to stroll the corridors of Westminster with his bucket. He could collect the front bench like a sticker album. Enough senior politicians had already made unsavoury advances toward Mycroft, unlovely and uninteresting though he was.

They'd have fallen in flames for the Daffodil Boy.

They wouldn't deserve him—not a moment of him—but he could have had them, all the same.

He almost seemed to recognise Mycroft. Every morning, he smiled as if they knew each other. Mycroft had never bought from him, never interacted with him outside of a single startled grunt that second morning. Nevertheless, each day, he got a grin from the Daffodil Boy.

 _I wonder how he refers to me,_ he thought one afternoon, reorganising Uncle George's filing cabinets.

He chastised himself for the thought at once. _What possible reason would he have to refer to me?_ The Daffodil Boy must see thousands of people passing through that station every day—indeed, from what Mycroft had observed, the boy had secured himself a supremely lucrative and highly clever business model. He didn't come to that platform each day to see Mycroft. He came to see commuters, hundreds of them, and to make money from them.

If the Daffodil Boy smiled at him, it was because he smiled at everyone. He didn't recognise Mycroft. It was just his trade.

 _Smiles for coins,_ Mycroft thought coldly, clamping a few pages between the teeth of a stapler.

His heart stirred.

_And yet..._

_And yet free, to me._

 

*

 

Mycroft woke one morning in March to an ache inside his bones, and a coldness of the skin he couldn't quite shake. He found himself oddly fragile in his thoughts, and unruly in his emotions; his throat felt dry and tight. He washed and dressed himself in the certainty he would feel well once he reached London, unwilling to inconvenience Uncle George with an absent staff member.

With each minute of the train journey, he only worsened.

He swapped onto the London Underground longing desperately for sleep, hot and sick and unsettled in his suit. At Westminster, the Daffodil Boy was busy trying to teach a baffled tourist how to use a tube map; though he glanced up as Mycroft passed, Mycroft kept his weary eyes locked onto the crowd.

He told himself savagely it didn't matter, not to receive his morning smile from the Daffodil Boy. His immune system wouldn't somehow have been bolstered by it.

And yet it robbed a distressing day of one small point of light, a comfort which might have made another ten hours on the clock a little easier.

Mycroft went to bed as soon as he returned home. He slept poorly through the evening and the night, disturbed by his own chesty coughing. He woke the next morning with a streaming nose and eyes, cold sweat coating him from ankle to forehead, and skin almost too sensitive to be touched.

Mama explained that it was the mark of a gentleman to put small discomforts like a sniffle aside, and to keep one's thoughts on one's duties to others. Uncle George was relying on Mycroft to be there to help; it was a great favour he'd done for Mycroft, allowing him to work and earn experience in such a great institution.

Mycroft reached London almost nauseous from the constriction of his shirt collar and tie. Other passengers kept shooting him appalled glances, scowling at his sniffs, glaring at his attempts to muffle them in a handkerchief. People jostled his shoulders as they pushed towards the doors; he felt woozy, dizzy, hot.

Passing through Westminster Station, he almost didn't see the Daffodil Boy. He felt so bitterly, miserably unwell that even the flash of yellow through the crowd couldn't cheer his spirits. Worse, as the Daffodil Boy laid eyes on him, he saw his own wretchedness reflected in those horrified brown eyes—no smile at all, no brightness, just a shocked look of worry—but then, as he arrived at the office and unpeeled himself shivering from his coat, all the other clerks looked at him in exactly the same way.

Mycroft kept his head down, working silently and sadly at his desk until six, trying to fuzz the printed letters on the pages into words.

Uncle George patted him on the shoulder as he left.

"That's the ticket, Mycroft," he said, bracingly. "Keep it stiff, m'boy. Divides the men from the boys."

Mycroft couldn't bear to eat a thing that night. Even though it was many years since he'd cried, he found himself helpless to staunch the weary tears which flowed down his hot face into his pillow, feeling weaker and more useless than he had ever been.

For some reason, all he could think of was the face of the Daffodil Boy, wide-eyed and alarmed through the crowd.

 

*

 

The next morning, Mycroft was barely conscious of dressing himself. The housekeeper, Mrs Moon, tried to put a flask of tea into his hands by the front door, mumbling, "For the train, Master Holmes..."—but Mama snapped at her not to fuss over him, as he was hardly a child any longer.

Mycroft gazed into space, shaking, as the tube pulled into Westminster. The entire carriage seemed to be pulsating around him, every squeak and cough and clunk as sharp as needles in his ears. Even breathing took more effort and strength than he truly possessed. He could feel himself sweating, melting, festering inside his clothes, and all he could do to force himself onwards from one moment to the next was to imagine himself at home in his bed, crying quietly in peace beneath his covers. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want his brain to function anymore.

Four steps along the platform, numb amidst the crowd, a hand appeared on Mycroft's arm.

"Oi—there you are—"

Mycroft barely recognised the voice; his heart lurched into his throat as he did. He stumbled a little, too weak and too shocked to resist the gentle pull, and let himself be guided free of the crowd.

The Daffodil Boy formed a shield around him as they moved, wrapping one arm wrapped tight around his back.

"C'mon, posh," he said, his voice raised over the noise. "There's a bench over here. 'Scuse me—can we get through please? Thanks—'scuse us, coming through—"

 


	2. One Good Turn

 

Life is the flower for which love is the honey.   
_ \- Victor Hugo _

 

*

 

As the Daffodil Boy sat him down, safe away from the surge of commuters, Mycroft wondered if his fever had claimed him in the night—if this was it, heaven, a Friday morning in a tube station with the boy he quietly adored, now crouched in front of him and studying his face, big brown eyes soft with concern.

"You're burning up, aren't you?" the boy said, and reached out to feel Mycroft's forehead. His fingertips were breathlessly cool, careful and gentle. Mycroft's eyes lolled shut at once. "Christ almighty... you should be in bed. Here—"

The boy reached into his bucket—today empty of flowers—and took out a metal flask.

"My gran said this is what you need," he said, unscrewing the lid. "I made it last night..." He tipped a little of the hot liquid into the upturned cup; it flowed honey-gold and steaming, with tiny curls of herbs. "You don't drink it for the taste," he said, with an apologetic glance. "Bet you're past caring though, aren't you?"

Mycroft could only gaze at him, lost, close to tears. 

The Daffodil Boy put the cup into his hands, wrapping his own over Mycroft's. There was soil beneath his fingernails; his gloves were thick and hand-knitted.

"Go on," he said, with a smile. "Down the hatch."

Wrists trembling, Mycroft lifted the cup to his lips. The fluid didn't taste of anything that should be edible; he drank it all the same, soothed by the sensation of heat easing down his throat.

"And you want two of these," the boy said, reaching back into his bucket for a small plastic bottle with a safety cap. "Two of these every four hours—right? Have them with a cup of tea for your throat. They're just painkillers. But they'll take the worst of it away. You hang onto those."

Mycroft tried to protest, stammering out the words. 

"Oi," the boy said, with a grin, "it's fine. You look like death warmed up. Your type don't take care of yourselves, do you? You just soldier on. It's not good for you." He nudged the cup. "Drink some more tea."

Obedient, round-eyed, and still quite sure this was a dream, Mycroft drank.

The Daffodil Boy watched him with a smile. He took the lid from Mycroft when he'd emptied it, pleased.

"Take this flask with you," he said, screwing it back on. "You can give it back to me on Monday. It's better hot, but it'll still help when it's cold."

Mycroft flushed desperately, taking the flask in both hands. 

"Thank you," he managed. His throat tightened around the words. "Thank you. I—I don't know how I can repay you."

The Daffodil Boy nearly laughed. "Look better next time I see you," he said, his eyes dancing. "Rest over the weekend. That's the repayment I want. Right?"

"R-Right. Yes, I will." Mycroft hesitated, glancing at the empty bucket. He'd asked before he could stop himself. "W-Where are your daffodils?"

"Still at Mum's stall for now," said the boy. "Baker Street tube station... I didn't want to bash them around with the flask." 

"Your—your family are florists?"

"Yeah. My great grandad used to trade out of Covent Garden. Back in better days." The Daffodil Boy smiled, glancing at Mycroft's tie and shirt. "You're... what? Future prime minister? Not many people our age come through Westminster during rush hour."

Mycroft hesitated, flustered. "Oh—no, I—my uncle is Lord Cotterill."

The boy's eyebrows quirked.

"At the Foreign Office?" Mycroft offered, uncertainly. "I'm... I-I work with him. I'm one of his junior staff."

"Wow. Sounds like a big deal." The boy nudged his elbow, grinning. "Remember me when you're running the country."

_ How could I possibly forget you?  _ "I-I very much doubt I'll ever be... b-but thank you. Thank you, for—"

"It's alright. I don't like seeing people suffer." The boy stood up, offering Mycroft a hand to his feet. Even the brief, functional tangle of their fingers set his pulse speeding out of control. "Promise you'll take the painkillers, right?" he said, dusting Mycroft down. "Promise you'll drink the tea. I know it tastes like a compost bin, but you'll thank me for it."

"I will," Mycroft said. "Thank you, I promise. Thank you very much."

His saviour hooked the empty bucket back over his arm. "Good," the boy said. "Take better care of yourself," he added, amused, and the playful twist of his mouth caused a twist in Mycroft's stomach that he'd never felt before. "Don't run off with my flask."

_ What is your name? Please tell me. Please, I have to know. _

"I-I shan't," Mycroft promised, holding it tightly. "Thank you. Thank you again."

The Daffodil Boy winked. 

"No worries, posh," he said, backing away into the crowd. "Have a good day."

 

*

 

Long after the flask was empty, Mycroft kept it in sight beneath his desk. It made him feel better just to glance down at it as he worked, reassuring himself it had all really happened.

_ You wanted to help me. You made a special tea for me.  _

_ You're... perhaps thinking of me, even now. _

Mrs Moon smuggled a bowl of chicken broth and some bread up to Mycroft's room that night while Father, Mama and Sherlock were at dinner. He took a final dose of painkillers with the food, then settled his head down to sleep.

His dreams were full of soft brown eyes, an arm around his back, and a playful voice which called him 'posh'.

 

*

 

On Monday, Mycroft wore his ice blue tie. He'd always worried it might be a little frivolous for a weekday, but Mama said it brought out the blue in his eyes. He felt so well and so happy that he simply couldn't bear to put on the grey one. 

He sat on the tube to Westminster with his foot tapping silently against the carriage floor, his heart jumping gently in time.

Two minutes away, he began to worry that the Daffodil Boy wouldn't be there—that now he'd allowed himself to feel this bright and giddy excitement, it would have broken some kind of spell—that the dream would now be over—but then the tube pulled in, the doors clunked open, and the people flooded off.

And there he was, with his bucket, waiting for Mycroft near the tunnel to the surface.

"Hey!" he said with a wide grin as Mycroft approached him, beaming. "You're looking better!"

"Yes—I feel much better. Thanks to you." Trying his hardest not to flush, Mycroft offered out the flask. He'd carried it with care the entire journey, rehearsing over and over what he would say. "I'm deeply grateful for your kindness," he said, as the boy took it.  _ I didn't catch your name, by the way?  _ "I—a-and I wondered—I could buy you a coffee, perhaps? To say thank you?"

The boy's face crumpled, his eyes flashing. 

"You don't have to do that..." he mumbled, tucking the flash beneath his arm. "It was only a bit of tea. Anyone would've done it."

Mycroft doubted that very much. 

"I—I'd like to," he said. "Please. I really did feel very unwell, and you were very kind to me. One good turn deserves another."

The boy bit the corner of his lip, trying to hide a smile. It brimmed from his face like light. 

"Alright," he said. "Twist my arm."

 

*

 

They headed up to the surface together, standing close on the escalator and sharing amused glances back and forth. Mycroft wondered if anyone around them had any notion how happy he was in this moment—if anyone realised what it meant to him, to have the attention of the Daffodil Boy wholly to himself. Part of him thought that no-one could possibly imagine; then, he'd seen how other people sometimes looked at the Daffodil Boy. He'd observed the quiet longing in their eyes as clearly as he'd felt his own.

He wondered if any of them were jealous.

Out on the street, he bought and paid for two cappuccinos from the sandwich shop next to the station. He was rather pleased to get his change inside his wallet without tipping it all across the ground; his fingers dearly wanted to shake.

"Bit busy," the boy remarked to him, glancing at the river of people flowing fast along the road. "D'you want to go across the road to Parliament Square Gardens, maybe?" He gazed at Mycroft, hopeful. "If you've time, I mean."

_ I will make time. I will find it. I will conjure it out of nothing, if I must.  _ "Yes—yes, that seems sensible."

They found themselves drifting by unvoiced agreement to the statue of Sir Winston Churchill, where a low stone wall could function as a bench for them. They settled on it, side-by-side, and shared a nervous flash of their eyes—a smile—a delightful, odd little snort of amusement from the boy, then a wide grin of apology.

"Sorry... I don't often chat with well-to-do people," he said. He pulled at his lip, glancing down into his lap. "M'trying to think of clever things to say to you. Should've paid more attention at school."

Mycroft's stomach squirmed. "I get rather tired of speaking with well-to-do people, as it happens. They mostly just talk about themselves."

"Yeah? I can believe that." The boy eyed Mycroft sideways, his gaze fond and bright. "Don't suppose you watch the footie?"

Mycroft smiled. "I'm afraid I don't. You could tell me about it, though."

"What?  _ Everything  _ about footie?"

"Mm, I'm all ears."

The Daffodil Boy searched his face, grinning. "You're teasing me."

"I'm not," Mycroft protested, as his heart flashed and flickered like sunshine on a stream. "All I know about you is that you sell daffodils, and that you're kind. I'd like to hear all the other things, too. It's hardly your fault I've failed to educate myself properly about football."

The boy's grin grew. "Is your uncle really a lord?"

"Yes," Mycroft admitted, flushing slightly. He glanced down at his coffee, attempting not to fiddle with the join of the cardboard sleeve. "He's my mother's brother." 

"So... your whole family are super posh, are they?"

"Oh—I don't know if we're 'super' posh..."

"You  _ seem _ super posh. Did you go to boarding school?"

"Ah—yes, but—but not one of the significant ones."

"You're super posh," the boy concluded, with delight—and Mycroft had never been looked at quite so wonderfully in his life. It made him want to smile from ear-to-ear. It was extremely hard not to. "I bet you're smart as hell too, aren't you? Working at the Foreign Office... did you go to university?"

"Y-Yes..." Mycroft hesitated, watching the boy lift his coffee to his mouth. "Did you?"

"Ha. No. I did okayish in my O Levels, but... I wanted to start working, earn some money..." The boy took a sip of coffee, wincing a little at its heat. "Kinda wanted to be a detective when I was a kid. You know like Columbo, on telly?"

"Oh?" Mama didn't think it was healthy for children to rot their brains watching television. Mycroft had never developed the habit. "Why did you not?"

The Daffodil Boy blew across his coffee. 

"I looked into it," he admitted. "It's a lot of training... and Mum needed me on the stall, so... anyway, I bet it's not as much fun as it looks on telly. Things never are."

It distressed Mycroft to imagine the Daffodil Boy had ever wanted anything without getting it—then, he supposed life often didn't go to plan. 

Wanting to offer some comfort, he tried a smile. 

"I imagine you'd see some very sad things as a detective," he said.

"Mhm." The boy's cheek pulled a little; he seemed to think about something for a moment, something he didn't quite want to. "Flowers are easy," he decided at last, retrieving his smile—and gave it straight to Mycroft. "You don't have to think about them when you get home. More time to do whatever you want."

"More time for football?" Mycroft suggested.

The boy beamed at him, as bright as a new coin. "Yeah."

"Do you play?"

"Not properly, just... y'know, few mates in the park for fun." The Daffodil Boy lifted his coffee, taking a sip. "What d'you do for fun?"

Mama often had visitors in an evening, visitors Mycroft was expected to come and help entertain. When he had the choice, he tended to read in peace in his room—but he didn't want to tell the Daffodil Boy his main hobby in life was being left alone. His brain scrabbled for something he could say, something which seemed at least halfway normal; it seized upon the free afternoons he'd sometimes spent as an undergraduate, content by himself in a tiny arthouse cinema where almost all the pictures shown were in French.

"I rather like films," he offered, praying to God the boy didn't ask for any recent viewings. "I... haven't been to see anything for a while. Working for my uncle has been tiring. But I keep meaning to."

"Go to the pictures, you mean?" The boy hesitated, licking his lips. "I like films, too."

Mycroft's heart leapt. "Really?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I... I took my little sisters to see Cinderella, back before Christmas. They re-released it."

_ That is a Walt Disney film.  _ "I liked 'The Rescuers'."

The Daffodil Boy gave a startled blink. "Yeah?"

"Is that—did you not like it?" Mycroft asked, his heart clenching to half its size. He understood from the newspaper adverts there'd been mice involved, and a small green aeroplane; that was all he knew. 

"Oh—n-no, I loved it. I thought it was great. You just don't look like a Disney person, that's all. Wow." The boy smiled, biting the corner of his lip. "Did you see The Fox and the Hound?"

_ That is also a Walt Disney film.  _ "Oh—yes. Yes, I thought it was wonderful. One of my favourites."

"Yeah?" The boy's eyes hadn't left his face; he seemed to swallow slightly. "It's back on at the pictures. Now, I mean. They're showing it this weekend."

"Oh," Mycroft said, and smiled, willing himself to look as if he knew anything at all about this film other than the probable inclusion of at least one fox and at least one hound. "Oh, I hadn't realised. Thank you for telling me."

"S-Sure. No problem." The Daffodil Boy paused. He squeezed his coffee cup, sitting up a little with an in-breath. "D'you... want to go see it?" he asked.

Mycroft was about to say he would certainly try his hardest, as he'd hate to miss it—then the Daffodil Boy added,

"—w-with me, I mean? This weekend?"

Mycroft's heart vaporised in an instant. 

He searched the boy's face, sure he'd misread the situation somehow—the Daffodil Boy couldn't possibly be asking what he thought.

"Together?" squeaked out of his mouth.

Quiet panic flashed through the boy's brown eyes. "It's cool if you don't," he said, quickly. "I just thought, y'know—might be fun with company—"

"Oh god."  _ Oh god!  _ "Oh—s-sorry, excuse me—I-I mean I'd love to. Yes. Yes, I... that would be wonderful. Thank you."

The Daffodil Boy's face opened.

"Really?" he said. His smile nearly killed Mycroft; the sight of it took his breath. "Great—I mean—cool. That'd be fantastic."

"W-When did you—?"

"D'you—Saturday, maybe? Afternoon?"

"Saturday—yes, that seems—"

"Unless you'd rather go on Sunday?"

"No, no—no, Saturday suits me fine—afternoon, you say?"

"Y-Yeah. Maybe. Is that—"

"Oh—yes, that's fine by me—so long as it's fine by you."

"Yeah. Yeah, it's fine by me." The Daffodil Boy's grin seemed to fill his entire face. It lit him up from within. "Totally fine. Shall we meet at Leicester Square tube station, maybe? There's loads of cinemas near there."

"Yes, alright. What time did you—?"

"Oh—what time's good for you?"

Mycroft's throat fluttered around the words. "T-Two o'clock, perhaps?"  _ As long as possible. The entire afternoon. _

"Two. Great." The boy beamed, breathing in deep. "Leicester Square at two. I'll get the tickets, yeah? It's on me."

_ Oh god.  _ "A-Are you certain?"

"Yeah. You can get us a popcorn, maybe? Big one to share?"

_ Oh. Oh god. To share.  _

"Yes alright," Mycroft said, trying not to smile like a lunatic. He hadn't even touched his coffee. Uncle George would wonder where the hell he was. "I look forward to it."

"Yeah. Y-Yeah, me too." The boy bit his lip, pulling it as he grinned; Mycroft had never wanted to press his mouth to another person's so much in his life. "I'll try to think of some clever things to say to you."

Mycroft's heart flipped. "I'm sure you know plenty of things already," he said.

 

*

 

They said goodbye at the gates to the park, beaming at each other, hovering nervously a hug's length apart.

"Well... have a great day," the Daffodil Boy said. He gave Mycroft a wink as he backed towards the pedestrian crossing. "See you Saturday, posh. Leicester Square, right? Don't stand me up."

"R-Right—yes, see you Saturday." Mycroft's heart squirmed. "Have a wonderful day. Goodbye."

As he watched the Daffodil Boy and his bucket disappear back inside the archway to the tube station, turning for a last grin and a wave, Mycroft's pulse drummed against his ribs with all the force of a mining drill. 

_ Why did I not ask your name?  _ he thought in desperation. It would be so much more awkward to ask now, now they were—

Now they would be—

_ Is it a... a date, though?  _

Mycroft was quite certain that grown adults did not ask each other on playdates. Friendships were forged through work or other social ties, then outings tended to occur in groups. Outings between just two people seemed to happen only after a lengthy friendship had already been established. 

_ Unless they are dates. _

_ Oh, lord. I don't even know his name. _

It didn't seem to matter somehow.  _ He wishes to spend time with me,  _ Mycroft thought, almost giddy with joy as he hurried along the street towards his uncle's office.  _ To know more about me. To be associated with me.  _ He would have to invent some convincing lie to cover his absence from the house this weekend.

He imagined it as he unbuttoned his coat, almost laughing:  _ Mama, I'm afraid I shan't be here on Saturday. I'm going to the pictures with a boy who sells daffodils from a bucket on the underground.  _

She would lose her mind, if she knew.

It made Mycroft like him all the more.

 


	3. Puppyish

 

If you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it's your world for a moment.  
 _\- Georgia O'Keeffe_

 

*

 

With every passing day, the few minutes on the tube to Westminster each morning grew more and more excruciating. Mycroft couldn't remember ever experiencing this magnitude of excitement. It seemed to fill his every nerve with a sensation like electricity, fizzling and sparking and powering him beyond far his capacity. 

 _I'm about to see you,_ he thought without variation, trying his hardest not to smile. Suddenly he adored every moment and detail of this journey: the hot dry wind whipping past his face, the shudder of the floor beneath his feet, the skimming hiss and rattle of the carriage as it swept him onwards into darkness. _Closer to you. Closer, closer. Closer still. I'm about to see you. We're going to the pictures this Saturday. We'll be by ourselves for hours, just the two of us, and I'm about to see you—_

He took to hanging back a little as the doors clunked open, letting others off ahead of him, permitting the bulk of the tide to flow past. It meant he could walk more slowly at the back of the crowd.

It meant he got to see the most wonderful sight, every single morning: the Daffodil Boy standing in the mouth of the tunnel ahead, worriedly searching the crowd for his face. He got to see the moment those deep brown eyes found him in the tide at last. 

Nothing in this world would ever make his heart thump harder than that relieved, happy smile. Nothing. 

They couldn't linger together for long. Uncle George wouldn't hesitate to tell Mama if Mycroft started arriving late everyday, and he would never hear the end of it. She would pick and scratch and poke until she found the reason why. 

But these small, stolen moments made the whole day happy.

"You changed your mind yet?" the Daffodil Boy asked him on Thursday morning, grinning ear-to-ear as Mycroft approached.

"About what?" Mycroft said, casually sliding his umbrella from the crook of his arm. It was raining outside; damp footprints tracked off the escalator ahead.

The boy bit into his smile, pulling at his lower lip. 

"Coming to the pictures with me," he said. His gaze moved shyly between Mycroft's eyes. "Being seen in the company of a scruff."

"Why ever should I change my mind?" Mycroft asked. He didn't know if he'd successfully masked the giddy leaping of his heart; he almost didn't care if the boy saw it. "And you're not a scruff at all... I'm sure that without the bucket you look eminently respectable."

The Daffodil Boy's eyes sparkled as he grinned, hungry and fond and playful—and Mycroft recalled, with a silent whoop of his insides, that two days from now he would have that puppyish, dark brown gaze all to himself for many, many hours. 

"Are you gonna come in one of your suits?" the boy asked curiously, cocking his head.

Mycroft's brain skipped. 

"I—..." _What do ordinary people wear to the pictures?_ "—hadn't quite decided yet." _Are suits not considered appropriate at the cinema?_ "Why? What do you intend to wear?"

"Already ironed my posh shirt," the Daffodil Boy replied, proud.

"Your _posh_ shirt?"

"Yep. It's black and it's got tiny spots on. You'll love it." 

"Tiny spots are posh, are they?"

The boy's grin widened. "You'll have to tell me on Saturday," he said. His eyes flashed. "If you've not stood me up, that is."

_Oh god. We're going to the pictures. It's real._

"Why on earth would I stand you up?" Mycroft asked. He could feel his heart fluttering against his ribs, squirming to get closer to him. "That would be incredibly rude of me. I happen to be rather looking forward to it."

"Hnnh..." The boy smiled his slanted smile, playful, teasing, just a little vulnerable, his gaze still held in Mycroft's own. "I'll believe it when I see you there."

 _How can you be nervous? How can you possibly worry that you'd ever be unwanted?_ "Well, I'm pleased to say that you certainly will." Mycroft gave him a fond, gentle smile. "I'm only sorry that I have to go now."

For a moment, it almost looked like the Daffodil Boy had blushed. "Duty calls?" he said.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Have an excellent day. I hope you sell plenty."

"Me too." The Daffodil Boy winked. "Have a good one, posh. Say h'lo to the Prime Minister for me."

As he stepped up onto the escalator, Mycroft looked back through the crowd, craving one last glance for the day.

The Daffodil Boy was watching him go. 

He lifted a hand, waving to Mycroft with a smile.

His stomach squirming, Mycroft waved back. He couldn't bear to look away; he couldn't bring himself to end this moment by choice. He let the escalator carry him upwards, breaking their line of sight, and watched until even the wellington boots were gone. 

 

*

 

On Friday morning, Sherlock's nose began to run. 

"Mama," he moaned that night after dinner, draped lengthways across the drawing room couch with one leg hooked over the back, still in his dishevelled school uniform. "Mama, I don't feel well at all. Stupid Mycroft has given me his sniffles."

Mama put down her cross-stitch at once. She came over to him, her expression fraught, and quickly felt his forehead with the back of her hand.

Dr Bowers arrived within the hour. 

He left not long afterwards, leaving behind both a substantial emergency call-out bill and a diagnosis that young master Sherlock was in the early stages of influenza. He was to drink plenty of fluids, take painkillers and rest. 

Mama, distraught, announced that she would nurse poor Sherlock herself for the next week. His sickroom was now strictly out of bounds to all but her; nobody was to disturb him, bother him, or cause him unnecessary distress.

Ever the dutiful brother, Mycroft suggested he would spent tomorrow visiting an old university friend in Cambridge, so as to relieve the burden upon the staff while Sherlock was unwell.

"That's very thoughtful of you, darling," his mother said, preparing lemon tea herself on the stove. "Very thoughtful indeed."

"The trains tend to be a little erratic on a Saturday, I'm afraid. I might return rather late, but I'll ensure to come in silently, of course, so Sherlock can sleep."

"Yes, darling—do make sure, won't you?—your poor brother has such a sensitive nature already... and now _influenza_ as well... he'll need all the rest he can get."

"Of course, mother. You'll hardly be aware of my existence all weekend, I promise. Forget entirely that I'm here."

"Oh Mycroft..." she sighed, adding a hefty spoon of honey to the tea. "You're becoming such a responsible young man. It really does make me proud." 

 

*

 

Mycroft woke up smiling on Saturday morning. 

He beamed at the ceiling for a while with his eyes still closed, gripping both hands around fistfuls of his bedsheets. He wanted to wriggle his toes; he wanted to squirm. _I'm going to the pictures with a young man today,_ he thought, and his chest heaved around the rush of giddiness it caused, struggling to contain the sheer size and force of his own joy. Everything in the world felt good.

He had a light breakfast, took a bath and dressed, deciding he'd much rather spend the morning in London than at home. He couldn't bear the thought of being delayed somehow by the trains, arriving late. If he took a book with him, he could entertain himself very comfortably in Leicester Square gardens—for several hours, if needed. It was a pleasant spring day. He could stroll to the tube station at the appointed time, and make it look as if he'd only just arrived.

Even though there was no sign of either mother or father around, Mycroft added a tie to his outfit. They wouldn't approve of him leaving the house without one, and it would certainly arouse their suspicions. He'd chosen a suit in lighter colours for the spring weekend, with a hope that it might make him seem more fun. They were going to see a Disney film, after all. He could pocket the tie as soon as his train departed for London.

_And at two o'clock, he'll be there... waiting for me... in his 'posh' shirt..._

_Oh, god... what if we kiss?_

The thought seemed almost too much to bear: the Daffodil Boy's lips pressed against his own; arms wrapped around him. 

_Would we be dating officially, then? Would that make him my boyfriend?_

Mycroft almost wished he'd paid a little more attention to the student dating scene when he was at university, if only so he'd now have a better grasp of the conventions. He knew he liked the Daffodil Boy very much; he suspected quite strongly that the Daffodil Boy might like him too. Other than that, the rest had yet to be revealed.

 _Including his name,_ Mycroft thought, flushing, as he pulled on his lighter coat in the hallway. _That might be a useful piece of information, if he and I are to... to be together._

He checked he had his wallet in his bag, then took a moment to study himself in the hallway mirror. He didn't look that much different from usual, by design—better safe than sorry. He could loosen his hair a little on the train, take off his tie, apply a spritz of the cologne he'd owned for years but never used. 

 _In case he holds me,_ he thought, his heart bubbling and skipping as he let himself out of the house. He locked the door behind him. _In case he comes close enough to catch my scent._

_Oh, lord._

 

*

 

Some nervousness arose on the journey to London. Mycroft carried it with him carefully on the tube, as if it were a small animal he simply needed to take somewhere quiet and it would settle. He hadn't come this far to be overcome by anxiety now. 

Within ten minutes of finding a bench in Leicester Square gardens, his pulse had soothed back to normal. 

He drank his cup of takeaway tea in the sunshine, checked his watch and found to his relief that he had several peaceful hours before his Daffodil Boy was scheduled to make an appearance. 

By the opinion of most ordinary people, he probably classed as hilariously early. 

It didn't matter, though. He'd much rather read his book here all morning, secure in the knowledge he couldn't possibly be late for his date, than wait restlessly at home while Mama carried on as if Sherlock had been invalided home from the Somme. 

He retrieved his book from his bag, smiling to himself, and on an uncharacteristically playful whim turned sideways on the bench to get more comfortable. He felt so much more at home, here in London. He stretched his legs along the metal slats, enjoying this happy discovery: that he could be the sort of person who did this. He could come to the city at the weekend, enjoy a morning in the park with a book, then meet an attractive young man for a date at the cinema. They might even get dinner, afterwards. That would be fine. They could go to a bar and drink into the evening, talking about anything that came to mind. 

They might even kiss goodnight—and if the Daffodil Boy came close enough to Mycroft's neck, he'd smell like cologne and clean laundry and sunshine.

As Mycroft settled into reading, he found himself aware of his own smile for one of the first times in his life. This felt rather wonderful, really. _Being ordinary,_ he thought. He opened his shirt by one more button, loosened his collar and rested his cheek against the back of the bench, deciding he wouldn't even move until lunch time. 

He filled his lungs with a sigh, happy to the bone, and turned a page in his book.

This would be a magnificent day.

 

*

 

At five minutes to two, Mycroft returned his book to his bag and nervously tidied the remains of his lunch into a nearby bin. He was starting to regret the large coffee he'd had with his sandwich; then, he couldn't blame the caffeine for _all_ his sudden anxiety. He'd started wondering what he would do if the Daffodil Boy simply never appeared—how long he would stand and wait, before miserably returning to the train. He could imagine the distress and humiliation of that lonely journey home so clearly it began to feel possible, _likely_ even. Mentally rehearsing it became a warped and nervous comfort.

As he took up what felt like a casual waiting position outside the tube station, Mycroft found himself with the strange conviction he hadn't checked the details of their meeting thoroughly enough. He couldn't remember with any certainty it was _this_ station. Critical files in his memory had simply gone dark, unreachable through his fuzzy and fluttery panic, and all he could do was repeat to himself gently that he would handle unexpected problems when and if they arose.

 _It'll all be fine,_ he thought, _when I see him._

He turned his eyes casually the other way along the road, checking all the faces coming this way.

_I'll settle when he's here._

He tried not to glance at his watch. The Daffodil Boy wasn't a train or a bus, due to arrive at precisely two o'clock. _I must just stand and be peaceful,_ he told himself, nervously rubbing the leather strap of his satchel. _He'll be here any moment. I'll seem terribly rude if I'm checking the time._

A flood of people began to spill from the tube station. 

Mycroft watched them all, motionless, sifting quickly through the crowd with his eyes for a face he recognised. As they all dispersed into the flow of pedestrians, with no sign of the one he wanted, he consciously eased his grip on his bag. _Not a problem,_ he told himself. _Not cause for concern._

A gentle hand laid on his back.

"I'm so sorry!" came the gasp, out of breath. Mycroft's heart lurched into his mouth. "Christ, I'm really sorry—I'm here—"

As Mycroft turned, they seemed almost to magnetise together. The hug came out of nowhere, arms suddenly wrapped tight around him. He couldn't recall reaching out to hug the Daffodil Boy, but his own arms had lifted themselves ready—and as the Daffodil Boy squeezed him, shaking, Mycroft held tight onto his back. 

The universe seemed to whirl around them.

"My bus broke down," the Daffodil Boy said in his ear. "I had to bloody run, and nobody would get outta my way... m'really sorry. How late am I?"

Mycroft hadn't the faintest clue. 

All he knew anymore was how perfect, how _right_ it felt to have their chests pressed together, a gentle voice in his ear, fond arms secured around him.

He'd never been held like this before.

He'd never been hugged through sheer joy at his presence.

"Are you mad?" his Daffodil Boy asked nervously, drawing back to look at him, and Mycroft nearly expired on the spot. He'd slicked his hair with pomade; the short was ironed to perfection. "I was so worried you'd leave... h-holy shit, you look great... I've never seen you without a tie..."

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak. Nothing whatsoever presented itself in his mind.

The Daffodil Boy inhaled, gazing at him. "H-Hi," he tried at last, and Mycroft's heart strained.

"Hello..." he murmured, weak.

An anxious smile broke out. "Are you angry?" the Daffodil Boy asked him.

"I... I honestly hadn't realised you were late..." Mycroft hesitated, realising they were still half-hugging in the street. He couldn't seem to let go, though. He didn't want to step away. "You look very nice."

The Daffodil Boy flushed. Relief ached through his features. "Thanks," he said. "Thanks, I, erm... I hoped you'd—..." He shivered a little, glancing at Mycroft's mouth. "Holy shit, you're really here. You actually turned up."

 _Oh god._ "Why would I not have?" Mycroft asked, trying to keep the shake from his voice. He searched the boy's eyes. "Why wouldn't I be here?"

"'Cause you're—J-Jesus, just look at you. You're amazing... and I'm just some..." The Daffodil Boy swallowed; his arms tightened around Mycroft's waist. "Is it okay I'm hugging you?"

_God almighty. You're afraid. Afraid I might not like you._

As soon as Mycroft realised it, he couldn't bear it.

There were people passing by—ordinary Londoners on the street, people for whom the sight of two young men hugging might already have been unsavoury—but they would simply have to cope, Mycroft thought. 

He reached out with gentleness, terrified at his own daring, and laid a trembling hand either side of the Daffodil Boy's jaw. The boy's pupils swelled; neither of them breathed.

Nervously, Mycroft leant forwards.

It was a shy, tiny kiss—barely a touch of their lips, a single moment's press. As it ended, he felt the Daffodil Boy exhale. All the tension seemed to flow from his shoulders as if drained into the pavement beneath them; his fingers curled against Mycroft's lower back, holding him close.

Mycroft opened his eyes, gazing at the boy across an inch of space.

"I like you very much..." he whispered. Relief washed through the overwhelmed expression now coming back at him. "You don't have to be afraid." He brushed his thumb over the boy's lips, gazing at them; he couldn't remember ever feeling something so soft in all his life. "I think you're wonderful, as it happens. And I'm very glad you made it here."

The Daffodil Boy's throat squeezed beneath his fingertips.

"You mean it?" he said, barely audible on the busy street.

Mycroft smiled; he felt his heart speed up. "Do you believe me?" he asked, softly. "Or must I kiss you again?"

The Daffodil Boy finally grinned, relief shining through his nerves. The blush was spectacularly appealing.

"We, erm... we could always head to the cinema?" he said. "Get our tickets..." He bit his lip, blushing harder. "Seats at the back, maybe... and you can kiss me a bit more, f'you like. Where people won't stare."

_I'd like nothing more in this world._

Mycroft smiled, pressing a second tiny kiss to the tip of his nose. The arms around his waist loosened gently.

"Which cinema are we going to?" he asked, and as he stepped back, he caught one of the Daffodil Boy's hands. He wove their fingers together slyly. "I've not been to any of the ones near here."

The Daffodil Boy grinned, squeezing back. "Erm—a quieter one, maybe?"

"Very sensible." Mycroft tugged on his hand, smiling. "You'd better lead the way. And I'm buying popcorn, am I?"

 


End file.
